L'Amour Est La Guerre
by Nom Faux
Summary: X-Men: First Class. Charles is rather forward one night, and apparently that is all it takes.


**Warnings:** Slightly explicit man-on-man happenings.

Though this story is set in the _X-Men: First Class _canon, I am playing to the comic canon in regards to Erik and Raven's respective abilities and how they relate to Charles's telepathy. I may also bring in some of the original X-Men as the story goes on. Also, hello everyone! Hope you enjoy this!

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Erik sat in his study pouring over his latest intellectual offering from Charles: _Re: Proust - An Essay As To Why You Are Wrong_.

The title was absurd, and in itself should have disqualified Charles from their ongoing debate but Erik found himself endeared to the telepath nonetheless. There was something charming about Charles's blunt assertions, his tongue-in-cheek rhetoric and his dismissive laugh at all of Erik's counterpoints. Erik saw a lot of his own mannerisms in Charles and could never decide whether that was welcome or frustrating.

A sudden shift off to his left told Erik that someone had come to visit. Charles's obnoxious metal belt buckle always gave him away.

"Yes?" Erik asked. He kept reading and felt Charles walk across the room. His gait was curiously smooth-meticulous even. Erik had thought to comment on Charles's apparent need for poise, but he never done it. There was no need to bring to light the things that no one but him seemed to notice.

"Enjoying the read?" Charles asked. Erik could hear the smirk.

"It's a bit dry," Erik deadpanned, flipping to the final page.

The sudden hand on his wrist launched Erik into a burst of adrenaline; Charles's essay was thrown aside and another hand found his neck. Kust when he was ready to shove his assailant away, lips connected to his.

_Oh_, Erik thought at once. One of Charles's hands still held his wrist while the other wandered up into his hair. Confusion tore through Erik. He wanted to back away to ask _what_ or _why_ but then Charles bit his lip _just so_ and Erik decided he would save his doubt for later. He freed his hand from Charles and grabbed the telepath by the hip; his other hand did the same and he stood, pinning Charles against his desk. Charles broke their kiss to laugh breathily.

"Erik, this is mahogany."

He was joking. He had to be joking. When Charles kissed him again, Erik assumed that he was. Erik pressed closer, ran hands along Charles's sides, willed him, silently, to submit-and he did. If Charles had read Erik's mind, Erik hadn't noticed. His lips parted all the same and Erik dove in.

_He tastes of tea_, Erik thought at once. _How disgustingly English. _

They fought through the kiss, as they fought in everything. After a short time they grew tired of the war and found an agreement, a dance of sorts, with regular patterns. They stroked skin, pulled gently at hair, made quiet, involuntary noises. When Charles hoisted himself up onto the desk, their waists reached an even height and Erik became starkly aware of Charles's arousal (and his own, by proxy). With a thought, Erik could make Charles's belt fly across the room. He could _have _him; he could _own_ the precious, powerful Charles Xavier, right here on his beloved mahogany desk.

Then Charles pulled away. Guilt stung Erik. Had Charles heard him? Or seen the images of himself that Erik had conjured? Erik could choose to be angry for the invasion, but then Charles never asked to be objectified in that way-

When Erik opened his eyes, Raven was sitting before him, blue and womanly and smirking.

"I figured I'd be right," she said, "but I didn't figure I'd be _that_ right."

Her eyes darted down to Erik's groin and her brow quirked. Erik jumped back like some skittish kitten and adjusted his trousers.

"I could kill you for that," he said, failing to keep the embarrassment from his voice. His face was hot, too; there was no hiding that.

"You could _try,_" Raven corrected, bold as ever. "I could be twenty times your size and stepping on you in the time it would take you to find a candlestick to throw at me."

Erik turned away just slightly, hoping to obscure his still-prominent erection. Raven held up the belt she had brought in with her.

"...Speaking of size," she added, "I had to guess for Charles based on what I know of his lineage and the way he thinks he's God's gift to all of us. Hope you liked."

Erik did not wish to dignify her antics with a response. He walked around the desk to the left side of the room, where Charles kept a Steuben glass set and some whiskey. Erik could hear music coming from up the hall: the real Charles was listening to Beethoven.

Erik poured himself a shot. The liquor was a kiss of ice on his warm palm and it burned going down. He could not stand it, but it was a distraction. He turned back to Raven, who had dismounted the desk and now stood beside it, watching him. Laugh lines pulled at the edge of her lips; her brow quirked. She _giggled._

"I like being right," she practically sang. Again her eyes dipped down toward Erik's lap. She grinned, baring all her teeth.

"I could take care of that for you."

"Finally, some sensibility," Erik huffed.

Raven laughed low in her throat as she swaggered over, her hips bouncing to meet a rhythm only she could hear. When she reached Erik, she leaned up toward his lips and placed a hand on his chest.

"Want me to be him?" she whispered.

She was laughing even as Erik shoved her and she hit the floor. He stormed out of his study and down the hall, into the nearest bathroom, where Charles's music was even louder.

When he climaxed, the thought of those blue eyes lingered with him.


End file.
